


Sunset People

by fractalsinthesky



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bi Sharky, Coming Out, Dep is patient and wants to help, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Nonbinary Dep, Not breaking canon but just kinda bending it lovingly, and falling head over heels for a badass enbie along the way, basically a journey to being honest with himself, bc Sharky never got the support or education he needed to understand himself, some internalized stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: Sharky's had a lot of folks telling him who he is--drop-out, dumbass, menace to society, etc. He's never really questioned it, but that don't mean it doesn't hurt. He doesn't expect a friggin' cop with a talent for bloodshed to acknowledge that he's more, much less give him the words to explain the things about himself he's spent his whole life carefully not thinking about.





	1. Disco Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder is a hell of a meet-cute

He doesn’t see them at first, too enthralled with the gouts of flame that practically shot from his fingertips, jetting out to lick at the creepy Bliss zombies clamoring before his feet. It was beautiful in the fading light—just about made up for the stink, and he’d barely even started. He’d cranked his music up, and was too busy hollering along to hear the first crack of aluminum against bone, but then they ran out into the brilliance of the floodlights, whackin’ straggling Angels with a stained silver bat and working their way towards his trailer. He was just about to yell out a greeting so they didn’t think he was completely fucking nuts, but then the light caught the logo on their jacket, and he scowled.

“Fuck off, Johnny Law!” he drawled, dousing a few more Angels in streams of flame pointedly. “It’s my property—I know my rights!”

They didn’t seem to care, continuing to wind their way around his set-up, poking around his ammo caches with curiosity. Fine. He kept an eye on them in case they were tryin’ to steal shit or, a likelihood in a different time, plant shit, but they weren’t disturbing nothing save for the few Angels that decided to go for the person that wouldn’t charbroil what was left of their faces. Looked like they could handle themselves, and if they wanted help, they’d ask. If they were like the other cops that’d come out this way, they’d just talk a lot of shit and leave.

He went back to the flamethrowing, trying not to let the dread of an impending lecture suck the joy outta what was left of his fun. He actually kind of lost track of them after a few minutes, but when the last Bliss-dizzy motherfucker fell back on their butt and there was just disco thumping through the emptied trailerpark and the smell of burnt flesh searing his nostrils, there they were—standing a respectful distance away, bloodied bat resting comfortably on their shoulder and grinning without a trace of mockery.

“I like your music, man,” they said, sticking out a hand. “And that’s a badass flamethrower.”

He brightened, decided to give them a chance, and shook, noting callouses and a firm but non-dick-waving grip. He squinted, raising the brim of his cap to get a better look. “‘Course it is. Made it myself. You the one them Peggies’re so shook up about?”

They shrugged. “We tried to arrest Joseph Seed. Went about as south as it could have possibly gone, but I’ve been tryin’ to make up for it.”

He grunted, nodding. “Well, uh, pardon my French, but next time you should probably just, you know. Shoot him.” 

Hard to tell in the low light if they were a dude or a chick. Built solid, but with that much mismatching body armor and shit beneath the County jacket, he couldn’t really tell what they looked like underneath. Low, mellow voice. Black hair shorn up to the temples and then drawn back into a perfunctory ponytail. Fuckin’ cop, lookin’ like a Hispanic and debatably beefy Skrillex. Had to be one of the signs of the apocalypse.

“It’s on my list.” They grinned, and he started at the unexpected dimples that winked into existence. 

His next conscious thought was ‘oh fuck’ and then, a few panicked heartbeats later, ‘please let them be a chick’ followed by a hasty ‘and also not be here to arrest me’. He cleared his throat and stopped himself from reaching out again, covering the awkward jerk of his arm by patting the stock of his flamethrower. “Uh, this is Donna. An’ I’m Charlemagne Victor Boshaw IV. Sharky, if you’re monosyllabically-inclined. Or, uh, bisyllabic, I guess. Anyway, it’s…it’s just Sharky.”

They nodded through his babbling. “Alright, Sharky. You can call me Rook. Or Deputy, I guess. A lot of folks seem more comfortable with that.”

He laughed. “Oh man, no, me an’ the fuzz have kind of a…contentious past, you could say. What with you guys having giant sticks shoved up your asses and all. What kind of a name is Rook? ‘Specially for a cop, I mean, it’s like one letter away from ‘crook’ y’know.”

They lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry, I'm new around here. Moved in about a week ago. This cult shit kicked off on my third official day in the department. And what kind of a name is Sharky? ‘Specially for a pyro in a landlocked state.”

He scowled. “Listen, I get blamed for a lot of shit I ain’t done, and maybe sometimes I get blamed for shit that I do, allegedly, but if you got a problem with my fuckin’ name you can take it up with my uncle.”

“Hey, just teasin’. Sorry.” They spread their hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sharky’s pretty cool, actually, for a name you didn’t pick yourself. And thanks for letting me in on the murder. Fuckin’ Angels creep me out.”

He shifted his weight, regarding them suspiciously. “I dunno about ‘murder’ seeing as they’re already dead to the world, and like, devoid of any and I mean any personality. Honestly it’s more like mercy killing when they’re this far gone. Ask anybody.”

They squinted at him for a moment, and he was about ready to cut tail and run and hope their bat-wielding antics had tired them out well enough to let him reach his truck when they hummed and nodded with understanding, waving behind them with dismissal.

“Not here to arrest you. Think it’s plain we all got bigger problems, yeah? Was just hiking through the hills up yonder and heard music. Didn’t sound like Peggie drivel, so I got curious.”

He was torn between wanting to believe and the very strong instinct that clamored at him not to trust a badge. 

“You…like disco, then?” Their fervent nod and the return of that amazing smile was enough for him to put a pin in those doubts. “Shit, alright, then. I mean, it’s only the greatest, most joyful and melodious genre on God’s green Earth, so that just shows you still got a beatin’ heart.”

They lifted their bat from their shoulders and tapped it a couple times on the plywood track, shaking what little blood hadn’t already dried from the smooth barrel. “Knock on wood. Look, I know you’ve got your own thing going on here, which I can definitely respect, but I’m trying to take these assholes out, and I could use some local knowledge. Keep getting lost with all these goddamn hills. You in?”

He tried to hide his surprise. They…wanted him around? He tamped that shit down real quick, though, shrugging and hemming and hawing for a little, as though he had something to go back to other than crushing loneliness and possible self-immolation. 

“Sure, I guess,” he said finally, adjusting his cap. “What—uh, what do I call you? Sir? Ma’am?”

They grimaced. “Rook is fine.”

“Okay,” he said, switching to a blunter tactic. “Sorry, but…are you like, a chick or a dude? ‘Cause I’m having some difficulties here, an’ I want to be respectful and give this team-up, you know, the best possible chance—”

“Neither,” they said calmly, holding his eyes in a steady gaze. “Just Rook. Deputy is fine if you want to be formal. I’m cool with you calling me dude and stuff, but I’m not a ‘he’ or ‘she’.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said, trying not to stare. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, so if we get separated and I’m, you know, trying to find you…uh, how would I ask around?”

They put a hand pointedly on the radio at their hip, but smiled. “I use they/them. Pronouns. You?”

“Yeah, I’m just a dude. Uh, he/him, I guess. That’s so weird, I’ve never really thought about shit like that. Words and like, what they actually mean, you know? Like, you ever say ‘the’ a lot and then start thinkin’ ‘hey, why do we even use this—who started it and why does it sound like that?’” He was blabbering, feeling the panic push up his throat and tumble out in a flurry of the wrong words. They were watching him, dark eyes carefully blank, and he felt like his face was on fire.

“Sometimes,” they said after a while, folding their arms and cocking their head. “Especially with ‘to’—uh, the preposition one mostly, but the others feel weird now and then, also.”

He almost collapsed with relief, slapping a hand to the top of his cap and grinning. “Oh, dude, yeah! Man, I’m so glad you got that—sometimes it’s like I say stuff to people and they just, uh, give me this look, you know? And it’s like, fuck you, buddy, I was trying to convey a specific experience, and maybe you gotta do some work to get there too, but you’re not even gonna try? Ugh, that fucking sucks, man. Why I spend a lot—a lot of time, uh, out here…by myself. That and the pantslessness. And fire.”

They kicked their bat back up to rest on their shoulder and nodded toward the treeline at the back of the park. “I got you. I’m trying to make it down to the prison before dawn. Or the closest bunker I can find. Would you be up for leaving ASAP?”

“Shit, Deputy, you do not mess around.” He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or intimidated. Okay, he was both, but he wasn’t sure which one he felt more strongly in this particular moment. He ran a mental inventory, came up better than he thought he would, and nodded, a cool, surreal breeze gusting down from the mountain and threading under his sweatshirt. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

It’s not like he had anything better to do.


	2. Crocodile Rock

It ended up taking about two hours for them to get close to the prison, more because they’d had to deal with a bear attack after crossing the train tracks, and then a one-two combo of a transport semi and a patrol convoy than actual travel time. It had been a lot to handle, and honestly by the last round of Peggie reinforcements he was feeling more than a little like heading back home, taking the leftover pizza and the last couple bottles of wine from his fridge, and holing up in his bunker for a few days to recup, smoke what weed he had left, and maybe jack off while the whole Peggie thing either blew over or fully consumed the county so he could unrepentantly live out all those hyper-violent fantasies that had sprouted from years of cross-faded zombie game sessions with his cousin. Unfortunately when he broke cover from behind a truck the color of old mayonnaise and ran face-first into the sweat-smelling gut of a similarly-surprised Peggie, he expected his story to end on a freeze-frame of said Peggie, one blistering second before getting his skull caved in with the butt of his rifle, and that was a far fuckin’ cry from the high-flying, pantsless, disco blasting out his eardrums, giant badass explosion heating his back, possible horde-of-ladies-screaming-his-name scenario he’d been hoping for. But instead of a quick gust of BO followed by a last red starburst of pain, he got a front-row seat to Rook getting an uninvited piggyback ride, their cargo-clad legs wrapping around the greasy-haired man’s waist while they choked him the fuck out.

“Holy shit,” he gasped, as the Peggie staggered back against the off-white hood, his eyes bulging and face turning red. Rook grimaced as they were pinched between the truck and their victim, but it didn’t break their hold, and then it was over.

Rook was panting slightly as they straightened up, glancing up and down the road to make sure there weren’t any more trucks coming.

“Fuck, dude,” Sharky said, grin spreading. “That was so clutch, Dep—you, you really pulled through there. You just straight up choked that guy out, man! Holy shit, that was awesome.”

They glanced at him, laughing a little, and he noticed a few strands of their ponytail had come loose, sticking to their sweaty forehead.

“You distracted him for me,” they said, shooting him a tired fingergun, and bent to the fresh corpse, pawing through their jacket. 

His enthusiasm faded, and he looked away in disgust. “No, dude—c’mon. That’s just gross.”

They paused in their desecration to arch an eyebrow up at him. “You’re a fan of the killing, but you turn your nose up at free ammo?”

“It’s different,” he protested, but they just shook their head and went back to it, stowing a couple clips in the gray backpack they wore. They found a wad of cash in the man’s jeans pocket and counted it out quickly, paging bills with their thumb, separating them out and offering him half.

“He’s not gonna need it.” They shrugged at his shocked expression. “Think of it as hazard pay.”

“Don’t you need to keep it as like, evidence or something?” he asked doubtfully. He could see a twenty on top, and dead dude or no, that was at least a couple pizzas, and the piss business was not exactly steady money.

Rook sighed, straightening up and taking a couple steps closer, clapping him on the shoulder. “If I live through this, there is no way in hell I’m going through the mountains of paperwork this shitshow will generate, I tell you that much for free.”

He flinched at the unexpected contact, covering it with a weak grin, but the brief warmth and pressure of their hand on his arm was like a gulp of black coffee, and his heart thumped painfully. The money hovered in front of him, and he hesitated, wondering if this wasn’t some kind of bullshit that would land him another stint behind bars, but they were shoving their half into their pocket, so he’d have that as leverage, at least. He took it, nodding, and added it to his moneyclip. 

“Cool, uh, thanks,” he said.

“Of course, man,” they said, moving on to the next body. “Thanks for helping. It is so much easier fighting with someone else. These guys are real fuckin’ tenacious.”

He winced as they flopped the corpse over to access his jacket pocket, clearing his throat. “Yeah, sure. Uh, are you gonna wash your hands after you’re done, or…? Because you really should. Wash your hands. Dead bodies are fuckin’ gross.”

“He’s no grosser than he was five minutes ago,” they said, opening a wallet patched with duct tape. “I mean, not that he wasn’t gross then, but at least now he isn’t actively trying to kill us.”

Us. He chewed on that word for a minute, rolling it around his mouth in quiet awe. Us. Not you and me—us. A team, a unit, a fuckin’ label. He grinned. “Fair point, I guess. You should still wash your hands, though.”

“Got some sanitizer in my pack, if you’re that worried. How much further, do you think? To the prison?” They checked the emptied trucks, coming up with an unopened bottle of water and a couple granola bars. “Fuck, yes.”

“Bout ten, fifteen minute’s walk, I guess,” he shrugged, watching as they uncapped the water bottle and pressed full lips against its mouth, throat bobbing steadily. He licked his lips, suddenly aware that the last thing he'd had to drink was a lukewarm beer at the trailer park, and his mouth tasted sour, tongue thick and dry with dust from the hills and the shitty unpaved roads.

“Want some?” Rook held the water out, and he took it with a mumbled ‘much obliged’, gulping until there were only a few swallows left, glinting white-gold in the harsh glare of the Peggie headlights.

He stopped himself from drinking it all, flushing as he handed it back to them. He thought absurdly of that book Ms. Olivaw had read aloud in seventh grade, about the boy who didn’t know his father, hitchhiking with a friendly man, traces of mustard backwash floating in red soda. Shit, you couldn’t avoid backwash, that’s why so many kids got mono during sports season. He’d probably just drunk like a half-milliliter of Rook’s spit right there, and now they—they finished the bottle with a satisfied sigh, crushed it in their hand, and threw the empty back in the abandoned truck. 

“Ten minutes, huh? How ‘bout by car?” they asked, picking a set of keys from the road and smiling.

"Less," he said with authority, and they threw him the keys, flashing silver through the gloom. He caught them with only a slight bit of fumbling, pinning them against his chest with the heel of his hand. “You don’t want to drive?”

“Not used to these hills at night,” they said, piling into the truck. “Are you okay driving?”

“Dude, I’m a great driver, I totally got this,” he assured them as he tried the keys in the ignition. It caught readily, thrumming to life with only a little sputtering. “Nice. It’s that special Boshaw touch. No butt stuff.”

They snorted, stabilizing themselves by propping a hand against the dash as he threw the truck into reverse and turned them towards the main road. The truck’s turn radius wasn’t that great, and they ran up over the wild grass bank at the edge of the road, bucking the cab laboriously.

“Uh, shit. We’re good, though. We’re good,” he muttered, pulling onto the straightaway at last. Fuel gauge good, no emergency lights activating, tires felt decent when they’d leveled out. Good. He turned the radio on, changing the channel with a grimace when it blared to life with that weird synth and dreamy vocals that the Angels seemed to like so much. No country. He found a station just starting to play some Creedance, and grunted happily.

“Nice,” he heard Rook mumble at his side, and felt a warm twist in his gut at the approval.

They bumped along the dirt road for a good five minutes, and he stayed wary for crossing deer, singing along to the radio under his breath. Fuckin’ idiots would just hope right out in front of cars at night, flashing blank eyes at the last second as though they were surprised, as though the big, noisy, bright hunk of metal careening towards them had just come out of nowhere. Stupid fucking deer.

The cheerful bounce of electric piano filled the cab, and Rook gave an abrupt, excited hum. He glanced over, and though they’d turned their head to look out the window, he could see their cheek bunched in a grin. He felt an answering one grow on his face, and he turned the radio up louder. They looked over at him in pleased surprise, and slapped at his shoulder excitedly, and then they were both belting out along with a young Sir Elton John and he felt happier than he’d been in a long-ass time, cult apocalypse be damned.

It was a quick drive, though, and they’d only gotten to the end of the second chorus when the prison came in view. The familiar sight soured his mood automatically, but then there were Angels to kill, and man, turning those creepy turdblossoms into speedbumps sure put the smile back on his face. Rook whooped, bailing after he scraped to a halt next to a blasted out bus, and he followed after. Between the screams, the too-close-for-comfort zipping of fire from the prison walls, and the gut-jolting, eardrum-rattling reports of his shotgun, he could hear them still, whistling the “la” section, and it stayed stuck in his head for hours after they’d killed the last Peggie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might consolidate the first two depending on how smoothly I want each chapter to run together. They should be longer than these, on average. Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook tries to add another member to the team, but it's not a great fit. Sharky gets to tell a story.

He didn’t pay too much attention to their business in the prison, too busy looking around at everything in a sort of disoriented haze. So fucking weird to see mattresses and blankets and personal knick-knacks cluttering up the waiting room that had always been bare and relentlessly uninviting, to have people pass him by with friendly nods instead of suspicious or bored glares, to walk through the narrow halls with a freakin’ shotty on his back. It takes a bit for Dep to notice his unease, but when they do, they hand him their backpack, and ask him to see if the trader posted up by the armory would give him anything for the skins and bliss oil they’d collected.

He took it with relief, jogging off and haggling with the body-armor-wearing young woman behind the window. She was brisk, friendly in a confrontational way that dispelled some of the brain fog, especially when she flashed an impressed grin at the wolverine pelt.

“This one’s in great shape—you do it yourself?” she asked, searching through the fur for imperfections. 

“Mhm, yeah,” he nodded hastily, folding his arms. “Totally.”

“Really?” she arched an eyebrow, turning it over and testing the cure. “How long did it take to flesh it this thin?”

“Uh, actually,” he winced. “I just—I just found it. Like that. To be perfectly honest with you, ma’am.”

She laughed, tapping a small blue scrawl at the underside of the skin he hadn’t noticed before. “I guessed. Craftsmen’s mark here. This fur’s been professionally done. Probably from before all this Peggie shit kicked off as a trophy.”

He flushed. “Uh, okay. Gotta be worth something, though, right?”

“Sure, yeah,” she nodded, grinning. “Along with the others, I can give you probably a few mags, maybe a couple sticks of boom. I’ll throw in some water purification tablets for free—Faith’s been dumping all kinds of shit in the rivers, so I wouldn’t trust anything untreated around here.”

“Thanks,” he said, unzipping the pack and stowing the goods she passed over the counter in its main pocket. She handed him a dram vial with the water tablets, and went over how to use them. He nodded, furrowing his brow to look like he was listening, but her words were starting to blur into each other.

“Uh—sorry, uh…” He interrupted with a pained grin. “Could you write it down, please? Just to be safe?”

She exhaled but nodded, grabbing a pad and pencil from beneath the counter and scribbling out instructions.

“Hey, how’s it goin’? You about ready?” A hand clapped down on his shoulder and he jumped, heart shooting into his throat. Rook stepped up next to him, peering into the backpack with curiosity. 

“Shit, dude, I almost just ninja-chopped you just now—don’t fuckin’ sneak up on me,” he blurted, hiking his pants up.

“Sorry,” they said, flashing him a grin. “Just excited I don’t have to lug all those skins around any more. How you doin’ on shotgun shells?”

He shrugged, not wanting to say he’d restocked from the Peggie corpses outside the gates, afraid of a told-you-so from Rook and a look of revulsion from the weaponsmaster. “I’m good.”

“Awesome.” They fished around in a side pocket and pulled out three vials of bliss oil, putting them up on the counter and looking to the clerk. “How much will this get me in SMG ammo?”

The woman checked the small glass bottles, squinting at the amber liquid inside to ensure they were full and pure. Satisfied, she nodded and pulled out a couple mags. “You’d probably get more out west, what with there being so many Angels around here, but I can give you these right now.”

“That’ll work—thank you.” Rook collected the ammo and dumped it in the backpack, lifting the straps from Sharky’s hands with a grin. A shadow fell across the doorway and a tall man in a floppy fisherman’s hat stepped in. Sharky moved out of the way instinctively, but he stopped just by Rook’s elbow. They glanced back and smiled, nodding from him to Sharky and back.

“Sharky, this is Preston. Preston, Sharky,” they said, and Sharky felt his gut cramp with jealousy.

“Hi,” said Preston, sticking a large hand out. No smile. Hooded gray eyes. He looked like a serious dude. Probably didn’t like disco.

Sharky scowled but took his hand and shook, squeezing hard enough to let the other man know he wasn’t a pushover. “What’s up, homie?”

Preston didn’t flinch, tucking his thumbs into the beltloops of his jeans and nodding. “Not much, man—you guys really saved our bacon there. Wanted to tag along for a bit as thanks.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, as if he cared, jamming his hands into his hoodie pocket and cocking his head. At six feet even, he couldn’t rightly be called short, but he sure as shit wasn’t gangly like this motherfucker. The dude probably had some kind of glandular disease—he felt sorry for him, really. “So, Dep—uh, are we leavin’ or what?”

Rook slung the pack over their shoulders and sighed, checking their watch. “We got, what? Four hours ’til sunrise? If you guys are good to go, I’d like to start heading towards the sulfur springs. Apparently we’ve got a doctor stranded up there, and in this mess we need all the medical expertise we can get.”

“Dr. Cotton?” asked Sharky, brow furrowed. He’d thought the doc had set up shop over in Holland Valley—what would he be doing out east?

“Uh, no—Lindsey, I think?” Rook waved to the weaponsmaster and edged around Preston, stepping out into the cool night air. “He’s a vet, actually, but still. Doctor.”

“Okay, then.” Sharky sped up to go through the doorway before Preston, not looking at him. 

The prison floodlights cast harsh white pools down in the admitting yard, giving the clean-up detail shadows that were darker than the night sky. The sounds of crickets and frogs was a low trill beneath the hum of the lights, but it grew louder as they exited the gates. The car they’d rode in on was a smoking hull—a necessary sacrifice that had taken out four Angels and a slow-witted Peggie in the pitched assault. There was a van parked up by the gate that looked functional, with only a few bullet holes dotting the passenger’s side, and Rook was making a beeline for it.

“The springs, you said?” asked Preston, freakish stride carrying him to the driver’s side before Sharky could get there. He slid in casually, as though he hadn’t been trying to show anybody up. “I used to work there as a tour guide in the summers. There’s an old mill nearby—been abandoned for years, but if you need a place to camp, it’s as good as any.”

Sharky scowled, getting into the back and gripping the bench with white knuckles. He knew about the mill, he could have told them about the mill. That old place was falling to pieces. Likely to step on a nail and catch— what’s it called, tinnitus. The mill was a stupid idea.

“Good idea—we should head there first. Get some rest and check out the area,” said Rook, buckling themselves in as Preston started the car.

The radio screeched to life along with the engine, and Sharky got a few seconds of The Knack’s familiar rollicking bassline before Preston switched it off. He gasped, affronted, and saw Rook give the other man a questioning glance.

“Sorry, it’s just hard to focus on the road with music blasting. Do you mind?”

“Driver’s preference.” Rook shrugged, leaning back in their seat and looking out the window, as if that wasn’t a clear sign that this Preston guy was a lost cause, a total square, and a fuckin’ buzzkill.

“Fuckin’ hell, man,” he muttered, tapping the back of his head against the van’s side. He hadn’t signed on for this shit. Cartin’ around with a stiff and camping out in dilapidated cabins that were probably definitely haunted—no butt kickin’, no chicks, and now no fuckin’ music? The wooorst. If things didn’t pick up soon, he might just dip out and go back to flaming Angels on his lonesome. Least he’d have tunes. And the no-pants option. And whatever was left of the Heinies in his fridge.

The van bumped along, the weird, echoey sound of the tires eating up dusty road underscoring the uncomfortable silence. Rook cleared their throat, propping their head up with the heel of their hand and staring out the window as if praying Godzilla would come crashing through the trees or something.

“So,” he muttered, more to fill the air the anything. “Now that uh, the niceties of modern society are kinda goin’ down the shitter, whaddya guys think the odds are of us-of us goin’ more in the Mad Max direction? ‘Cause I’ve been givin’ some serious thought to really trickin’ out my truck. Get some cool spikes on the hubcaps, maybe rig some like, oil or shrapnel traps under the back fender if dudes are tryin’ to follow me.”

“Oh man,” Rook twisted around in their seat, grinning at him. “You think you could rig a turret on top? If we’re talkin’ true wasteland anarchy, you’re gonna want a gunner watching your six at all times.”

“Uh, of course I’m gonna rig up a turret, man, that’s like number three on the mods list.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms across his knees and counting off on his fingers. “Number one is obviously reinforcing the windows and shit. Gotta beef up the tires next—then weaponry, then aesthetics. Gotta be practical.”

“Yeah, for sure—”

“Jesus, guys,” muttered Preston from up front, lures on his hat brim jingling as he shook his head. “People are dying, you know. Is this really worth talking about right now?”

Sharky scowled, two seconds away from launching into a tirade about how some people got sticks up their asses, but Preston’d had the bad luck to get like a whole fuckin’ two-by-four shoved way up there. But by the time the words had ordered themselves in his head and he’d opened his mouth, Rook was already talking, voice low and measured.

“Folks have different ways of coping. I’m sorry if we came across as, as callous, or maybe gave you the impression that we don’t care, ‘cause we do. For me—I mean, I can’t speak for Sharky, we only just met tonight, but I feel like we got kind of a similar way of lookin’ at things. For me, making jokes and talking about stupid shit is the only way to keep going. You know what I mean?” 

They waited for a moment, the dim flash of passing streetlights illuminating their profile as they watched Preston. More jingling as the man shrugged reluctantly.

“Yeah, I get it. For me it just feels like—like if all the people who’ve gotten killed already were watchin’, maybe they’d be disappointed in us for getting off track. Feel like we’d forgotten them.”

“Mm,” Rook nodded, then cocked their head and grinned. “Or maybe we’d be givin’ ‘em something to laugh at in between the thrilling acts of vengeance. I didn’t get the chance to meet many of the good folks of Hope County before things kicked off, but I’ve lost people close to me before. Best times I’d ever had with them was doing useless bullshit and making stupid jokes, and I’m not gonna let Eden’s Gate take that away from me.”

Preston inclined his head, adjusting his grip on the wheel as he guided them off the main road and onto a dirt track. “That’s fair, I guess. Peggies been takin’ enough from us as it is. Just not my way, is all.”

“That’s fair too,” said Rook lightly, leaning back in their seat. “Just, y’know. We care—wouldn’t be out here if we didn’t.”

Preston let out a short, dissatisfied hum. The air in the van was cold, and Sharky clapped his hands briskly.

“So,” he called out cheerfully. “How ‘bout that radio, huh?”

The sky was lightening, a gentle predawn that was flushing golden over the hills to the east when they pulled up near the old mill. No tracks or Peggie activity—the place had been abandoned a long time, and even the dicks from Eden’s Gate must have written it off as without value in resources or strategic location. And the smell of sulfur was strong—the springs were close. 

They got out of the van, stretching a little—Rook yawned, massaging the back of their neck, and Sharky stamped the ache out of his legs.

“The springs are just over the hills,” said Preston, waving his hand, rubbing at his eyes. “Not sure when Dr. Lindsey came through this way, but we could scout it out now, if you’re ready.”

“Nah, I—” Rook yawned again, covering their mouth with the inside of their elbow this time. “Been up for a few days now. Getting sloppy—if we can get some rest, I think our chances’d be a lot better.”

“I could use a fuckin’ nap, too, to be honest,” said Sharky, trying to remember if there was even enough room in the mill to sprawl out properly. He used to be able to rage for days, but the highs of life-threatening battle apparently burned you out a hell of a lot faster than good old-fashioned drugs and alcohol.

“Sure,” said Preston, following them up to the mill. “I can, uh, I can keep watch for a bit.”

The door was boarded up, and so were the windows. It was built over the edge of a short ridge, though, and when Rook walked the perimeter, they found a way up through the crawlspace foundations where the boards had rotted through.

“I think I smell skunk, dude,” he said, accepting the hand up as he clambered into the musty space.

“Think there’s a den or something nearby,” they said, brushing their hands off on their jeans and leaning back against the wall. “Or a burrow? What do skunks have?”

“Fucked if I know,” he scoffed, shuffling carefully across the softened planks. Thank Christ he didn’t have allergies. Must be like a hundred kinds of spores in here. “Just hope they can’t climb.”

They grinned, setting their backpack in the corner and curling up, using it as a makeshift pillow. “I dunno—they look kind of cute. Maybe a friendly one? I miss my cats, man.”

“No—do not trust skunks, Dep, those little motherfuckers are tricky as hell.” He pointed at them sternly. “They do not snuggle. You let one get close, and all you get is a face full of stinkpiss and probably a few gnarly bites. You’re gonna need tetanus shots and—and like a morning after pill but for rabies, and maybe stitches, dude.”

They laughed, raising their eyebrows. “Are you speaking from experience? There’s a lot of—of personal rancor in that.”

“I had a close encounter,” he said, chest warming. They were actually interested in his stories? “Y’wanna hear about it?”

They nodded, grin wide and eyes shining, and he felt the warmth spread up his neck. He shuffled back, clearing his throat and deciding how best to set the scene.

“Alright, so—me an’ my cousin Hurk decide to do like a summer cookout thing a few years ago. He’d just got home from one of his adventures, so nothin’ too crazy, y’know? Just us two plus his buddy Craig and Craig’s girlfriend at the time. Uh, think her name was Destiny. Or maybe that’s his new girlfriend?” He frowned, trying to remember if that was right, but Rook sneezed, and he realized he was getting off track. Skunk. Get to the point. 

“Salute, man. Anyway, point is, she didn’t know us too well, and brought a couple of her friends along, which was totally cool and everything, because one—legitimate safety concern when you’re a chick that doesn’t know the area or the other dudes. Uh, and two—they were both actually super hot and we all got along great. Brought a keg and a few bottles of wine, plus some of the best weed I have ever gotten in this dink-ass county—” Oh shit, Rook was a cop. He flinched, waiting for a reprimand, but it didn’t come. They just kept watching him expectantly, so he kept going.

“Uh, anyway. Everybody’s feelin’ good and we got a sweet bonfire goin’. Craig’s a pretty big survivalist, an’ he brought a bunch of venison sausage for us to cook up. Hurky’d covered libations, but we were all hungry as hell, so we start roasting the venison. Smells fuckin’ incredible. One of Destiny’s friends is havin’ a little trouble cookin’ hers evenly, so, y’know, being a gentleman, I scooch over and give her some tips—help her with the skewer, get that casual contact goin’. And she’s—she’s sweet and seems receptive, y’know. Havin’ a good time.”

He suddenly felt awkward, talking about ladies to Rook. Would they think he was flirting with them? Because he wasn’t—it was just a story. Wasn’t like he was tryin’ to talk up his game with some PG anecdote, and he was pretty sure they knew he was straight. Yeah, and that meant chicks only, and they weren’t a chick—which he knew and respected and maybe he was still trying to get his head around the whole gender thing, but what if they thought that he was flirting with them because he thought they were? Fuck, why was he even thinking about this—it was too stupid and complicated and they probably weren’t thinking anything along those lines, and he shouldn’t either, because it didn’t matter if they thought he was flirting because he wasn’t because he couldn’t because he was straight. Right?

“Sharky?” they asked, frowning slightly. “You good?”

“Yup!” he blurted, ears burning. He was not looking at their lips. “Uh, sorry. Just the all-nighter catchin’ up to me.”

They nodded, smiling sympathetically. “If you want to take a break—”

“Nah, I’m okay,” he shrugged, adjusting his cap and peeking at them from beneath the brim. “But it’s cool if you’re not feelin’ it. Ain’t exactly the tale of the century.”

“No, I’m invested!” they protested, grinning wide enough so that those dimples popped out again. “So, you were crossfaded and chattin’ up a cute girl. How does the skunk fit in?”

“Uh,” he wiped his palms off on the denim over his thighs. “I guess it smelled the meat cooking. Probably was hangin’ out for a while outside the light of the fire—a lot of folks camp out where we were, so the animals are used to getting scraps and shit. Anyway, Hurk is teasin’ me ‘bout the lady—her name was Nicole, if I’m rememberin’ right. Or Nicki, maybe? But he’s throwin’ bits of sausage and hot dog bun, some hittin’ us and some just flyin’ right by because he can’t aim for shit, and we’re laughin’ and dodgin’ and we’re both pretty drunk, so we end up fallin’ off back into the bushes behind us.”

He mimed the scene with his hands. “So I’m down and fuckin’ everything is funny and great even if I got twigs and shit in my hair, because when we were falling, she grabbed my hand, right? So I think, couple scrapes are nothin’ because she’s cool and I’ve been getting good signals, so I try to roll over to where she landed and give her a kiss before helpin’ her up.”

“Oh no,” groaned Rook with dawning comprehension, and he snorted.

“Oh yeah. Smooched it right on the nose. Ended up with a face full of angry skunk. Cut my lip open, turned around and sprayed fuckin’ directly in my eyes. Didn’t get a call back and couldn’t see for three whole days.” He leaned back against the wall, grinning and tapping his finger against his upper lip. “Left a little scar, but uh, you can’t really see it when I got the ‘stache goin’. Moral is: those little bitches are a lot meaner than they look.”

They laughed, tipping their head back and folding their arms. “Jesus. Man, I’m sorry for laughing, but…god, that must have sucked.”

“It totally did, but at least I got a decent story out of it,” he said, relieved and pleased that they’d enjoyed it. 

They grinned, shuffling over on their side. “That’s it—silver lining. Night, Sharky.”

He took the cue, laying out and nestling his head in his arms, padded with the soft, thick fabric of his hoodie. “Night, Dep.”

He tried to slow his breathing, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking boring thoughts. He was bone tired, but his mind was a stubborn hum of activity, flashing through memories, snatches of remembered songs or television commercials from his youth, switching tracks with breakneck speed conducted by loose associations. Like trying to play six degrees of Kevin Bacon with a chatbot drawing from a database chockfull of pop culture references, lyrics of the golden oldies, his weirdest high cravings, and his personal Top 40 Best Hits of embarrassing shit he’d done over the years. 

He tried to think about the nights in prison, laying on his back on that thinass cot, staring up at the cracked concrete ceiling. He’d had a roomie briefly, but the dude hadn’t been much of a talker, and Hope County Prison wasn’t exactly in danger of overcrowding before the Peggie nonsense, so he’d spent most of his sentence on his own. The blank ceiling, the fuzzy hum of the half-light fluorescents, the soft footsteps of the thin patrol—consistent. Enough stimulus to prevent the bullshit from taking root, but not so much as to keep him awake. A little on the lonely side, but he’d never kept such a steady sleep schedule, before or since. Sometimes it helped to pretend he was back there. At least, it worked better than counting fucking sheep.

He sighed and shifted, shielding his eyes from the light filtering in between the gaps in the mill’s warped planks. The sound of stifled laughter caught his ear, and despite the fact that he really did want to go to sleep, he rolled over with a grin.

“The fuck you giggling about over there, Rook?”

“I just—” they gasped, putting their hands over their eyes, helpless grin wide beneath their palms. “Was it a good kisser?”

He snorted, half-frowning at them incredulously. “Man, shut the hell up and go to sleep. ‘Was it a good kisser?’ You can kiss my ass, I tell you what, my dude.”

“On a scale of one to ten—” they managed to get out before subsiding into a gale of snickers, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“Alright, okay. It wasn’t the worst kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“So…what was—”

He laughed. “Uh, I thought we were tryin’ to get some shuteye here?”

“Okay, fine.” They settled back in their corner, pointing at him vaguely. “But you owe me a story later.”

“Alright, whatever,” he said, grinning to himself. The warm glow in his chest washed out the racing in his head, and he was out like a light within minutes of putting his head back down.


End file.
